


Plot Bunnies

by kyaticlikestea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Gabriel being an Ass, Humour, M/M, Romance, angels get on with each other, becky is a fangirl, canon AU, chuck vs fanservice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/pseuds/kyaticlikestea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up of the creative constraints of writing what he's told, Chuck decides to branch out and go against the angels' prophecies. After hearing about the fans' partiality to a phenomenon known as 'Destiel', Chuck decides to give the fans what they want, but when his new-found creative freedom gets out of control, the angels decide to put things to rights. </p><p>Unfortunately for Dean, they decide to do this by turning Chuck's ideas into prophecies, and that's not good news for anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over at [this blog](http://destielficprompts.tumblr.com/). I'll post the prompt in full with the final chapter; if I post it here, it'll rather spoil the plot!

This wasn’t what Chuck had signed up for. Damnit, he’d graduated college with a pretty good GPA – not perfect, but then he’d spent rather more time stoned than he’d like to admit – and had been voted ‘most likely to almost succeed’ in his high school yearbook. And yet here he was, sitting in his one bedroom apartment, clad in a ratty old pair of tartan pyjama pants and an embarrassing t-shirt that Becky had bought him, embellished with a gaudy fan-made portrait of Dean and Sam, hanging from his wiry frame.

He sighed, allowing himself a quick, regretful glance at the two empty cans of beer on his desk before re-reading his latest paragraph.

_“Goddamnit, Sam! I’m sick of it, y’know?” Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation as he strode agitatedly, pacing up and down the motel room. Sam watched, weary._

_“Sick of what?”_

_“This!” Dean replied angrily, gesturing at their surroundings. “Crappy motel rooms and getting stabbed in the shin by demons.” He sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair before sitting down on the bed opposite Sam and placing his head in the hands. “Jesus, sometimes I let myself wonder what it would be like. A normal life. Wife, kids, a regular bar. A regular_ anything _.”_

_Sam didn’t know what to say. He watched his brother’s breathing slow steadily._

_“We don’t have a choice, Dean,” he said quietly. “This is how it has to be. Without intentionally bringing on a chick-flick moment – because God forbid you should have to deal with actual feelings – this is our destiny.”_

_At this, Dean looked up, and there was something that looked a little like defiant anger in his eyes._

_“Well,” said Dean. “Destiny sucks.”_

Chuck could relate. Destiny really did suck. Look at him. Destined for a promising career in screenwriting, his college professors had said. Fuck that. He’d been destined for a life of writing things he didn’t even choose to write, scribe ideas passed onto him from the ether, and he was sick of it. Most people got to decide what they wrote about. Most people were allowed to take days off work – baristas, Chuck thought. Most aspiring authors these days seemed to be baristas – and sit on a park bench for a few hours, laptop on their knees and a polystyrene cup filled with fuckberry latte in their hand, and _think_. Mull over ideas. Develop characters, plots, scenes.

Chuck didn’t get any of that. All Chuck got was a bunch of vivid dreams and the occasional migraine.

It sucked. Hard.

Sighing rather dramatically, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his laptop. It could wait. Becky was due to arrive any minute now, and he could do with the distraction.

He stood up and headed over to the mini fridge in the corner of the room. His ‘den’, Becky called it. It felt more like a prison these days, the amount of time he spent holed up in it with only a back wall window for dim light.

He opened the fridge and frowned when he realised that there was no beer left. Well, wasn’t that just the cherry on top of the world’s most disappointing cake? He had no idea what he was going to serve Becky now. She was coming round with expectations of wine and dinner. He could offer her a slice of mouldy brie and a glass of cloudy tap water. If he was lucky and had remembered to pay his water bill, that was. He sighed and slammed the fridge shut.

Everything was shit. He hoped that, somewhere out there, Dean and Sam were having a better time of things than he was. By his calculations, they would be on about chapter six by now:

_Sam threw up his hands in defeat._

_“I don’t know what you want from me, Dean!” he cried. “We do everything together, you and me, and now it’s you, me and Cas! Pardon me for questioning where exactly I fit in anymore.”_

_Dean rubbed his forehead, frustrated. Why was Sam even questioning this? The answer was obvious; he fit in the same way he always had. The fact that Castiel had started to spend more time with them in the wake of his massive betrayal of Heaven didn’t mean that Dean wanted Sam to take a backseat. Heck, he still rode shotgun in the Impala a good 80% of the time, if Cas didn’t materialise there first. He had a bad habit of doing that, teleporting into situations with the grace of a water buffalo with a broken ankle. He wasn’t the most tactful of beings, it had to be said. The thought of it made him chuckle, and it must have shown on his face because Sam huffed an impatient sigh._

_“Whoa, dude,” said Dean, raising his hands in an inadvertent reflection of his brother’s gesture only moments before. “Chill, all right? I don’t want you to go anywhere. Jesus, where did all this come from? You’re acting like a high school girl worried her prom date won’t make it in time. Cut me some slack, man. I’m trying to make things work.”_

In hindsight, it seemed unlikely that they were enjoying things any more than Chuck was.

He was considering digging through his desk drawers in hope of locating an old takeout menu when the apartment buzzer rang and he jumped a clear foot. Becky. Picking his way over piles of old paper and rejected manuscripts, he made his way over to the door and opened it.

“You really should respect the apartment building rules,” he told Becky as he held the door open for her and she walked in. “That means that you don’t bribe the doorman to let you into the building.”

Becky raised an eyebrow and sat down on the couch, pushing away a heap of tattered Supernatural books with a pinched look of distaste.

“I’ll start respecting apartment building rules when you start admitting that you’re terrified of that doorman,” she returned. Chuck nodded; she had a point. He closed the door and sat next to her on the sofa, and she looked at him, a vague expression of concern on her face.

“What?” he asked. She frowned.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. Chuck shrugged.

“Writer’s block.”

Becky rolled her eyes.

“You get your plot ideas via divine intervention, Chuck,” she said. “You’re the last person to suffer from writer’s block, unless the Big Guy upstairs stops throwing you plot bunnies. What’s really wrong?”

Chuck sighed and rested his head in his hands, and Becky patted his back sympathetically. He’d have to tell her. She’d only worm it out of him otherwise.

“To tell you the truth, I’m getting disenfranchised with the whole thing,” he started. “It’s a pain in the ass not being able to write what I want to write, you know? I’m fucking sick of being dictated to by the powers that be. It’s like I’m transcribing the world’s most predictable sitcom. I’m not even a writer, am I? I’m just an interpreter, and it sucks.”

Becky shifted closer to him on the sofa and put an arm around him.

“Have you ever considered just not writing what they tell you to?” she asked, and Chuck looked up.

“I can’t!”

“Why not?” She fixed him with a stern look. “You’re the guy with the laptop, for Chri... for crying out loud! You can write whatever you damn well please.” Her expression changed into something rather more guilty. “Anyway, the fandom is crying out for new material, and you’re the only guy who can give it to them.”

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

“New material?” he questioned. “What, the homoerotic tension between Dean and Sam isn’t enough for you guys anymore? Wincest falling out of favour, is it?”

Becky’s faint blush told him all he needed to know, and he sighed.

“What do they want?” he asked. She shrugged.

“From what I can gather, it’s all about Destiel these days,” she responded, and Chuck furrowed his brow in confusion. She sighed, exasperated. “Dean and Castiel. Together. Romantically.”

Oh God. She couldn’t – no. What was she thinking? What were the _fans_ thinking?

“Jesus H Christ,” he muttered, and Becky shoved him.

“Hey, we’re the ones who buy your damn books and keep your bank balance in the black, and don’t you forget it!” she scolded him. “Although by the looks of this place, that’s not helping much.”

Chuck shrugged.

“Sales aren’t what they used to be,” he admitted. Becky grinned.

“So, this is the perfect solution!”

He wasn’t sure. What would happen if he wrote something other than what he was supposed to? His job as a divine prophet was to tell the stories of the Winchesters as gospel. It was pretty much the job description. He didn’t have ‘precognition’ listed under his special skills for nothing, after all.

Becky clearly sensed his hesitation as she held him a little more tightly.

“Chuck,” she said, voice soft. “You have nothing to lose.”

He laughed, a little bitterly.

“Except perhaps my career, my fans, my life...” He sighed. “Those guys – the angels – are powerful, Becky. I don’t really want to piss them off. I’d probably wake up with more than a horse’s head in my bed. Hell, I might wake up with a horse's head. _On my head_. If I'm lucky.”

Becky poked him, and he couldn’t help but smile. She grinned in return.

“You’re making pop culture references. I’m clearly winning you over.”

The worst thing about it was that she quite possibly was. He couldn’t deny that the idea appealed to him; creative freedom was something that he’d always felt strongly about but been denied through no fault of his own. He didn’t have any time to write anything other than the Supernatural books, so it wasn’t even a case of picking a meaty little side project for his creative outlets. He was tied, both contractually and psychologically, to the adventures of Sam and Dean, and this seemed to be a pretty good compromise. He groaned.

“Look, I’ll think about it, all right? Now can we please change the topic before we get smited by Hellfire for blasphemy?”

“’Smote’. ‘Smited’ isn’t a word. And to think, you’re the guy who makes money from this,” she teased.

He shoved her at that, and she laughed delightedly. For her, he thought, he could do this.

“Sorry, I’ve never gone against God’s direct command before. How do you feel about dinner?”

“Generally favourable. What are you serving?” she asked, and Chuck realised that she had won him over. He would give her her Deanstiel, or whatever it was that the fans had dubbed it. He would do it for the fans, he would do it for Becky, and he would do it for himself, because God knows he deserved it.

He smiled guiltily, and spread his palms.

“What are your opinions on brie?” 

 

* * *

_Chapter 6 – An Unexpected Turn of Events_

_Dean sat alone in the Impala, fingers steepled under his chin, and thought. He rarely got time to think like this; between the hunts and the arguments he’d been having with Sam, he barely had time to eat and sleep. Now, Sam had stormed away from the Impala and back into the motel, where he had locked the door to their room and proclaimed that Dean wasn’t allowed to enter until Sam had cooled down sufficiently. Dean knew that could take a while. Sam rarely got angry like this, but when he did, it was best to take cover._

_Sam was different from Cas in that respect, Dean thought. Cas didn’t get angry in the same way. Where Sam boiled, Cas simmered. Beneath the surface there was tension, but it never really seemed to come to a head. Until it did, of course, but they would always be able to deal with it. It was as though Cas had never really learnt to use his anger maliciously, to gather it and twist it into something malevolent that could hurt and sting. From Cas’ anger came results, plans, ideas. If Dean was honest, it was one of the things he loved most about him._

_He gasped and clasped a hand to his mouth, making a mental note to try and find out when he’d turned into a Jane Austen heroine. Where the_ Hell _had that word come from? ‘Loved’? Jesus... he really needed more sleep. Insomnia apparently turned him into Jennifer Aniston._

_Loved. Yeah, right._

“That’s perfect!” Becky squealed, clapping delightedly. She grabbed Chuck’s face and planted a kiss square on his mouth, and he flushed furiously. “The fans are gonna love it, baby! Thank you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chuck said, waving a hand nonchalantly. The effect was rather lessened by his scarlet cheeks, but Becky grinned anyway and clasped her hands together.

“No spoilers, I promise,” she said. “My lips are sealed.”

“This had better not come back to bite me in the ass,” Chuck retorted. Becky raised an eyebrow.

“It won’t,” she countered. “Unless you’re somehow opposed to massive rises in your book sales. Trust me, honey, this stuff? Gold dust.”

“I did enjoy the freedom of writing it,” Chuck admitted, and Becky beamed.

“I told you!” she cried. “This is a _good thing_ , Chuck. A very good thing.”

“Let’s just hope it’s a good thing that doesn’t turn into a bad thing.”

“It won’t.”

She seemed so sure, Chuck thought. So resolute that it would be all right. He found it hard to ignore her at the best of times, but now he found it hard to refute her beliefs. What could happen? At the worst, surely, he’d get a snarky dream-visit from some archangel, or maybe they’d just sigh and send down some winged equivalent of a public relations officer, try and smooth things out a bit.

It would be fine. 

* * *

Gabriel looked at the angels around him. With the exception of Uriel, who looked mostly bored, they all seemed to be seething with rage. He could understand why. It wasn’t often that a prophet directly contravened divine orders. Still, it had happened, and they might as well fix it.

After they’d had a little fun, of course. Gabriel was only Trickster, after all, and he’d be doing the title a disservice if he passed up this opportunity.

“You’re all focusing on the negatives!” he cried. Michael raised an eyebrow.

“There are positives?” he said. Gabriel clasped his hands together benevolently.

“My brothers,” he said. “There are always positives. There is light at the end of every tunnel. There is gold at the end of every rainbow. There is - ”

Uriel sighed and crossed his arms.

“Get on with it.”

Gabriel fixed him with a hurt look, but did so.

“Chuck believes he is writing false prophecies,” he said. “He thinks he’s in control. We have to show him that he’s not.”

“And how do we do that?” Michael asked. “Personally, I think we should just smite him and find a new prophet.”

“Too much hassle,” Uriel said, waving his hand dismissively. “It took us long enough to find a prophet who could differentiate between past and present tense. With his large number of followers, we would be foolish to cast him aside.”

“Exactly,” said Gabriel, seizing onto his brother’s reluctance. “We keep the little bearded fellow, and we make him believe that he’s not writing his own destiny at all.”

“How?” Michael asked again. Gabriel spread his hands as though offering them a great gift. Which he was, of course.

“We make his prophecies come true,” he said.

Uriel unfolded his arms.

“What do you suggest?”

Gabriel shrugged.

“Exactly what I said. We take Chuck’s fiction and we make it into fact.”

Michael shook his head.

“No. He could easily write a chapter in which we are all killed.”

“We can be appropriately selective,” Gabriel argued. “Think of it as copy-editing, or proof-reading. We authorise certain chapters, pulp the rest.”

“Have you read his most recent? It’s blasphemous!” Uriel protested.

“But hilarious,” Gabriel pointed out. “C’mon, don’t act like you wouldn’t all pay good money to watch our fallen brother bone Michael’s failed vessel.”

Michael growled, but Uriel raised a hand to silence him, and Gabriel silently cheered. This would be good fun. This would be the project of a lifetime. Chuck had the right idea, he thought; creative control _was_ fun.

Shame only one of them would be able to exercise it.

“In light of recent events,” Uriel began. “I am inclined – and I never thought I’d say this, so don’t hold it against me – to agree with Gabriel. The prophet needs to be taught a lesson.”

“I agree with Gabriel too,” Gabriel added. Michael sighed.

“Then it’s two against one,” he acknowledged. “Fine. The prophet learns the hard way. But we don’t permit him to rewrite history or any significant future events, is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Gabriel agreed. Michael closed his eyes and slumped a little. He looked defeated.

“God help us,” he sighed. 

* * *

If Dean had overheard that particular conversation, he might have agreed with that statement. As it was, though, he was busy arguing with Sam.

"Whoa, dude,” said Dean, raising his hands in defence. “Chill, all right? I don’t want you to go anywhere. Jesus, where did all this come from? You’re acting like a high school girl worried her prom date won’t make it in time. Cut me some slack, man. I’m trying to make things work.”

Sam, still pacing, raised a hand to indicate that Dean should probably shut the Hell up. 

"Well, things aren't working!" he argued. "You're always with Cas nowadays - seriously, are you joined at the hip or like conjoined or something? - and what am I supposed to do when you two are off on your little dates? Sit in the motel room and twiddle my thumbs?"

Dean snorted a laugh. For all that Sam was usually considered the quiet one, he could make a heck of a noise when angry.

“Don’t get so damned pissy!” he retorted, and Sam stopped pacing the motel room to face Dean with an enraged look on his face.

“Pissy?” he repeated. “You think I’m being pissy? Jesus fucking Christ, Dean!”

“Not proving me wrong here, Sammy,” Dean retorted, and Sam closed his eyes. He was counting to ten, Dean thought, to try and calm down. It wouldn’t work. It never did.

“We are not having this discussion now,” Sam said eventually. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Then when will you deign it possible to have it?” he asked angrily. “Damnit, Sam – we need to talk about this!”

“Go talk about it with your angelic boyfriend!” Sam bit back, and whoa, where had that come from? Dean reeled, feeling not unlike he’d just been punched in the guy, and Sam’s face softened almost imperceptibly. “Dean - ”

“No, no, you’re right,” said Dean, hands raised in surrender, as he backed towards the motel room door. “I should talk about this with Cas, because he’d probably quite like to know that you’re sick to the teeth of him after all he’s done for us. Y’know what? I’ll sleep in the car tonight.”

He fumbled blindly behind him and felt the door handle. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Dean - ” he tried again, but Dean was in no mood to listen. Not now.

“Don’t,” he said warningly, and opened the door. He had to leave.

Slamming the door, he made his way over to the Impala and unlocked the front door. Still shaking slightly from rage, he sat in the front seat and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. Damnit all to Hell, really. He didn’t need this. Sam was being ridiculous. His ‘angelic boyfriend’? Really? Was there any need for him to make it so personal – and so stupid?

He steepled his fingers under his chin, reflecting on the angel in question. He never got angry like this. He always seemed more rational, even when he was interrogating cats – the thought made him laugh, even now - and flitting about the place in a trench coat. He wore his tie backwards and he still made more sense than Sam most of the time. He was a bundle of contradictions, Dean thought; calm in his rage and angry in his serenity. It was probably the thing he loved most about him. Either that, or - 

Hold on.

Loved?

He didn’t...

No.

Oh God.

“Fuck,” he gasped, clasping his hands to his face. “Fuck.”

Sam was right. Normally, that in itself would be enough to send Dean into a panicked frenzy of rage, but this time... shit. He actually...

He couldn’t verbalise it. He didn’t want to have to.

“Fuck,” he said again, because it was easy to say. Then, because it was hard to say, “I love him.”

Fuck.

* * *

Chuck lay on the sofa, can of beer in his hand and seven more empty on the floor. It had been a long time since he’d indulged himself in a little drunk writing. He’d done it all the time at college; downed two vodka shots and written poetry that was so experimental, it made his brain hurt to read. He’d written some of his most interesting pieces with the aid of a bottle of scotch. Since he’d become a prophet, however, it hadn’t even been possible, let alone fun. Writing when drunk wasn’t usually a risk. It was boring when you knew what you were going to write. Dean-and-Sam-did-this, Dean-and-Sam-said-that – alcohol didn’t dull the predictability of the narrative.

But now? Fuck, he could write anything. He _would_.

Cracking his fingers, he spread them across the keys, and began to write.  

* * *

From his vantage point in Heaven, Gabriel read over Chuck’s shoulder and threw back his head in delighted laughter.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean awoke the next morning, cramped and aching in the Impala, with the distinct feeling that he was being watched.

“I am not watching you,” said Cas. Dean jumped.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” he said, hand on his heart.

He did have a few questions; namely as to why there was an angel of the Lord lying alongside him in the back passenger seat of the Impala, pressed up against his side so closely that he was starting to lose feeling in his left side. He felt a flutter of nervousness in the pit of his belly. Why the Hell was Cas here? Had he overheard his argument with Sam somehow and come to offer some misguided sort of comfort? Or worse – had he been somehow telepathically privy to Dean’s big gay revelation?

“I highly doubt that Jesus had anything to do with this situation,” Cas retorted, still lying alongside Dean, pressed far too close for comfort. Dean cleared his throat.

“And what is our situation?” he asked carefully. “Because I gotta say, Cas, your personal space issues aren’t exactly improving.”

“That is also irrelevant.” Cas turned to look at Dean, and Dean hastily looked away. Looking directly into Cas’ eyes right now was probably not the best idea, all things considered.

“Then tell me something relevant,” he said, staring at the roof of the Impala. There was a small scuff on the interior upholstery. He’d kill Sam.

“It appears as though, without our knowledge, we have been subjected to a bonding ritual,” Cas replied, and sighed. “I accept, it isn’t entirely convenient.”

Dean blinked. It was too early in the morning for this shit.

“We’re bonded? Isn’t that like, angel married?” he asked. Did this have anything to do with last night? He felt a cold sort of dread knot itself in his stomach and work its way up his spinal cord. Sam was going to have a field day with this.

Cas looked at him.

“No. Bonding is a very complex ritual which requires explicit written consent from both parties,” he explained, talking slowly as though Dean were that child who sat at the back of the classroom and had special after-school sessions with the teaching aid. Dean swallowed. He didn’t really need to hear Cas say ‘explicit’ while he was in this position. “We are not bonded, not exactly, but there is a form of bond present.”

Dean shifted position so he was half sitting up and no longer touching Cas, back propped against the door of the Impala. It wasn’t comfortable, but it did alleviate some of the tension in his left kidney.

“So what, we’re angel engaged?”

“No, Dean. Put your hand back on my leg.” Dean blinked, and Cas made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. “Or anywhere else.”

“Dude, why?”

“Because in about two seconds, you’ll be in blinding pain.”

“What are you – son of a bitch!”

The pain was sudden and, despite Cas’ warning, unexpected, like a cold rush of water to the brain or a knife to the skull. Dean hissed, and through the blinding wall of agony he heard Cas sigh before he grabbed Dean’s hand. As suddenly as the pain had started, it stopped. Dean inhaled and exhaled heavily, trying to regulate his racing pulse. What the Hell was that?

Cas looked at him with relative sympathy as Dean’s hand shook in his.

“What the Hell was that?” Dean asked. Cas blinked.

“The bond,” he replied.

“Cas, if that’s what a bond feels like, then I’m surprised that the rate of angel divorce isn’t sky-rocketing.”

“I have already told you that we do not share a marital bond,” Cas retorted, and Dean wondered why he’d even woken up today. He still had to explain all this to Sam. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. “It is rather a more complicated bond to explain.”

“Every time we stop touching, I feel like the subject of a Taylor Swift song. You’d better try to explain.”

Cas looked away from Dean. Dean swallowed.

“Are you familiar with the concept of arranged marriage?” Cas finally asked. Dean frowned.

“Yeah, a little. Why?” he replied, his heart rate beginning to increase again. That was never a good opening question to a conversation.

Cas met Dean’s eyes again, and Dean could swear he saw something that looked a little like worry there. He felt his mouth go dry. He’d seen Cas face demons and monsters without so much as a nervous frown. This wasn’t going to be good.

“It is a common practice amongst high-ranking families in many cultures,” Cas continued. “Including ours. By its nature, many couples are not exactly well matched. Not by personal means. The bond we seem to share reminds me of the pre-marital bond used before arranged marriage ceremonies.”

“So we _are_ angel engaged?”

“No, Dean.” Cas sounded exasperated, and Dean resolved to shut up and listen. “It is a pre-cursor to an engagement. The families of the intended bride and groom often wish to make the process as easy as possible, so as to ensure that the marriage will not fail. In order to do so, it is not uncommon for the couple to be placed under a temporary bond that forces them to spend time together.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

“You misunderstand the intention. It is not designed to force them to like one another so that the marriage can go ahead. The marriage will happen anyway. With a bond such as this, it simply means that the marriage will be happier. It helps them to make the best of an undesirable situation.”

“Undesirable? Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

Cas tilted his head slightly to the left.

“You are angry.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. ‘Angry’ didn’t cover it, somehow.

“I’m something.” He squeezed Cas’ hand in a way that he hoped was more reassuring than lecherous. “One thing’s for sure – Sam’s gonna laugh his ass off when we tell him.”

Cas opened his mouth as if to respond, but was cut off by a frantic rapping on the window behind their heads. Dean frowned and spun around, making sure not to break any physical contact with Cas. It was Sam, and he looked about as panicked as Dean felt. Reaching behind him at an angle that threatened to rip his arm out of its socket, Dean managed to open the door of the Impala, and Sam leaned in.

“Dean,” he said breathlessly. “Why is Sarah Blake in our motel room?”

Dean’s heart plummeted to the bottom of his stomach. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t limited to a freaky arranged marriage.

“I have no idea,” he replied.

“Something is happening,” said Cas.

Sam frowned.

“Why are you holding hands?”

* * *

“So,” said Dean, sitting on the bed opposite Sarah and Sam. Cas held his wrist, and Dean was well aware that his life had become infinitely more complicated than it had been yesterday at only 9am. “What brings you here?”

Sarah fixed Dean with an irritated glare and looked at Sam, who shrugged for her to continue. She sighed.

“I already told Sam,” she said. “I fell out of the sky. Literally. One minute I’m about to have brunch with this unspeakably hot guy in New York, and the next I’m lying in a heap on some vomit-stained motel room floor in - ” She looked around the room and clenched her jaw, irritated. “I have no idea where I am, but that wallpaper suggests it’s no place good.”

“We’re in Ohio,” Sam told her.

“Brilliant,” said Sarah, her shoulders slumping slightly. She looked pointedly at Dean, and she immediately perked up again. “And apparently a lot has changed since I saw you last.”

If Dean could have torn his hand away from Cas at that moment, he would have. Sadly, he was acutely aware that holding Cas’ hand looked slightly less batshit insane than rolling around on the floor in intense pain at being physically apart from him, and so he managed a sarcastic smile.

“Dean is not homosexual,” Cas chimed in, and Dean saw Sam hold back a laugh. He really did hate his life sometimes. It came to something, he thought, when he’d rather be out hunting wendigos and flesh-eating unicorns than sitting in a motel room.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sarah replied slyly, and damnit, Dean could feel himself start to turn red.

Sam cleared his throat.

“It seems like something weird is happening,” he stated. Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“You’re telling me,” she agreed. “Your brother definitely had the hots for me last time we met.”

“Also, you fell from the sky,” Cas added.

“I didn’t have the hots for you,” Dean argued. “That was Sammy. And I don’t have the hots for Cas either, thank you very much.”

“Did I say you did?”

Sam raised his hands before Dean could argue back, and Sarah smirked.

“We have to deal with this calmly,” said Sam. Dean didn’t know how he could possibly be calm when he was forced to hold the hand of the dude he’d just discovered he was quite unfortunately in love with, but he stayed silent. Sam was usually pretty good in crises. He’d have a plan.

Maybe.

“Cas,” said Sam, turning to the angel. “Do you know of anything that could cause this?”

Cas shook his head, and Dean cursed silently.

“The bond between myself and Dean could only have been implemented by an angel,” he answered. “But Sarah’s appearance could be caused by anything, and I see no clear motivation for either event.”

“Maybe something’s just screwing with us?” Dean suggested. Cas shook his head.

“An angelic bond is a serious undertaking,” he explained. “It expends a not inconsiderable amount of grace. A teleportation is not such a noteworthy event, but it is still frowned upon to teleport a human against their will unless it is for a greater good.”

“So maybe this is for a greater good,” Sam suggested. Sarah huffed.

“Ruining my date is for the greater good?” she said. “It had better be, because that guy had cheekbones I could cut my face on.” She sighed. “I was looking forward to trying.”

Sam shuddered, and Dean wondered if he remembered that he had kissed her.

“So our best guess is angels?” Sam asked. Cas shrugged.

“It is our only guess at the moment,” he replied.

Dean sort of hated angels.

“This is all wonderful,” said Sarah. “But how exactly do I get home?”

* * *

They dropped Sarah off at the bus station with the full fare she needed and an apologetic grin. She promised to call them when she arrived back in New York in ten hours’ time, and Dean hadn’t been able to avoid noticing the small grin on Sam’s face.

The car journey back from the bus station was uncomfortable as Hell, and not just because Cas had to keep his hand on Dean’s leg at all times.

“So,” Sam asked. “Why do you think the powers-that-be chose to stick you two together?”

Dean shrugged.

“Beats me.”

“It just seems odd, is all,” Sam continued, and Dean saw Cas frown out of the corner of his eye.

“Not really,” Cas said.

“What do you mean?” asked Dean indignantly, set to enter denial mode if necessary. “They couldn’t have angel-married me to a hot chick instead?”

Cas’ grip on Dean’s knee tightened, and Dean was more than a little worried at the fact that his first reaction was to regret that the intention behind it was irritation rather than desire.

“I have told you before,” Cas started. “We are not married. And no, it is not odd. Whoever is doing this – and I have my suspicions – is evidently not intending for you to have sexual intercourse.”

Sam choked. Dean focused on the road and not the fact that Cas had just said ‘sexual intercourse’ while holding his knee.

“I hope not,” Sam managed to say, and Dean hummed in agreement.

“Why?” asked Cas, after a moment’s silence, and Dean furrowed his brow in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you hope that their intention was not for you to have sexual intercourse?”

Dean could hear Sam valiantly attempting to withhold hysterical laughter. He didn’t need this conversation right now.

“Well, Cas, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not actually able to stop touching you at the moment. It would be kinda awkward if that was their intention, don’t you think?”

Cas shrugged.

“Not particularly.”

Dean was blushing again, he could feel it. And damnit, wasn’t it typical that this conversation had started now, when he couldn’t escape and Sam – who already resented the time that Dean spent with Cas – was here? There was a time and place for these sorts of discussions, Dean thought, and that was at the halfway point in B-list romantic comedies. This was real life, and this was Dean’s car, and he wouldn’t stand for that shit. Not here. Not now. Not ever, if he had his way.

There was only one thing for it.

Keeping his right hand on the steering wheel, he reached into the glovebox and fumbled around, pulling out a Led Zeppelin cassette and handing it to Cas.

“Put that on,” he instructed him, and much to his relief, Robert Plant drowned out any hope of an embarrassing conversation that Cas might have had.

* * *

Dean rounded on Cas as soon as they were inside their motel room.

“What the Hell was that?” he hissed, locking the door behind them and grabbing Cas’ wrists so that they were facing each other.

Sam had taken the liberty of booking them a separate room, a gesture which Dean was both thankful for and resentful of. He knew how it must look to Sam, who was already angry about being usurped. This road trip had started off as the two of them, and now they were three. He could see why it was something of a bone of contention, and this fucking bond business wasn’t exactly helping. Christ, it had only been a few hours, and already he was sick to the teeth of it. He was constantly torn between embarrassment at being literally stuck to the unfortunate object of his secret lust and arousal at the same thing. It was hardly ideal.

Still, they were here now, and he had to make the most of it. If that meant actually talking to Cas, then so be it. Perhaps it would make Dean’s stupid crush go away, he decided, if Cas were to irritate him so much as to quash any burgeoning flames of desire.

Cas tilted his head to the right, blue eyes wide and unfollowing, and nope, Dean thought, nothing was being quashed here apart from previously-held notions of heterosexuality.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said Cas. Dean snorted.

“That!” he cried, letting go of one of Cas’ wrists and gesticulating inarticulately. “In the car just then, with Sam. You saying that. What the Hell, dude?”

Cas narrowed his eyes.

“Are you speaking in code?” he asked. “I still do not understand to what you are referring - ”

Dean threw back his head in exasperation.

“‘Why do you hope that their intention was not for you to have sexual intercourse?’” he responded. “That. That is what I’m referring to.”

Cas frowned.

“It was a valid question,” he said. Dean internally screamed. This would be a great conversation to have, he thought, if one were a masochist.

“Not an appropriate one,” he countered. Cas didn’t respond, and Dean closed his eyes and loosened his grip on his wrist. “You can’t just ask that sort of thing. It’s gonna be misunderstood.”

“Then I will be easy to understand,” said Cas. Dean doubted it very much, but let him continue. Cas straightened himself and looked Dean in the eye, and Dean hastily looked away. “You said that you would not offer me sex. Why not? I have been led to believe that you are not usually so choosy with your sexual partners.”

Dean looked at Cas and blinked. He felt a little like he’d been slapped in the face, and he had to check that they were still physically connected. They were. He wet his lips to speak.

“Jesus, Cas, I’m not some kind of whore.”

Cas shook his head.

“You are still misunderstanding.”

“You think I’m easy, is that it?” Dean asked, a familiar flare of anger rising in the pit of his belly. “That I’m some kind of creep who gets off on being attached to someone like this?” He raised their joined hands. “No, Cas. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”

“But why not me?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Dean said. “Jesus, Cas, so help me. You’re my friend. I’m not exactly Miss Chastity 2013, but I’m not going to take advantage of this bond thing and ruin that.” Cas narrowed his eyes again, and Dean hastened to clarify. “Also, I don’t think of you in that way. You know.”

“Yes.”

“OK?”

“OK.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and was about to change the topic to something less awkward when Cas wrenched his wrist free of Dean’s grasp and Dean’s heart seemed to leap into his mouth.

“Cas, what are you doing? That’s going to hurt – oh fuck, _fuck - ”_

His head was on fire. It had to be. Oh God, and his arms were made of lead. His heart was being invaded by tiny little men with bayonets and his brain was under attack from some sort of horrible miniature army.

“You don’t want to be attached to me,” Dean heard Cas say through the white noise of his pain, and Cas sounded far away and hurting, and it made Dean want to reach out for him for another reason entirely. “So I’ll - ”

“Fucking _Jesus_ , Cas, get back here,” Dean gritted out, stretching towards Cas with heavy, aching arms. White-hot pain seared through his bones.

“It might pass,” Cas said, voice strained and shaking, and fuck this. It might pass, but Cas was in pain right now and he thought that this was what Dean wanted. Dean could stop it.

Gathering every last scrap of energy, he pushed himself forwards, fumbling blindly through the dotted haze of peripheral consciousness because Cas’ voice hadn’t sounded like that in a long time, and just before everything went black he felt the soft pad of skin between Cas’ thumb and forefinger, and the last thing he thought was that it was kind of scary how familiar that felt.

* * *

When Sam kicked the door down ten seconds later, presumably having heard the shouting, Dean was lying on top of Cas and they were breathless.

“You know,” said Sam. “That’s really gay.”

“He’s got a point,” Sarah agreed.

Didn’t Dean know it.


End file.
